Silver Belles and Stetsons

by Caroline Clemmons

  The canine reached the elevated summit before him, and like the faithful beast he was, dropped to his belly with his keen eyes on the land below.

  The seconds ticked by in slow motion while Elam waited. He snuck another glance at the dog; withdrawing his scrutiny with the assurance the animal hadn’t flinched from his decision to lead him here. He dismounted, pulled the rifle from the scabbard and took up a position beside Wolf-dog.

  At the same time, man and beast turned their heads to the right…toward a muffled commotion in the distance. Faint sounds, yet to Elam’s trained ears after tracking for the army, unmistakable. Within a short time, a rider would appear in his line of vision. Please let it be Catherine, alone and unharmed. He couldn’t shout out, didn’t dare move a muscle, not until he knew who approached.

  Seconds later, nausea and fear collided in his gut. Not fear for himself but for the dark-haired woman whose hands were bound behind her back, whose neck was tethered by a rope leading to the man he should have killed when he had the chance. A ribbon of crimson streaked her forehead and ran down her cheek.

  Sonofabitch.

  The hackles on the dog’s neck stood on end when he released a low-rumbling growl. Elam shushed him with the Kiowa word for no, “Haun-Nay.” But how could he tell the animal timing and coordination hung in the balance between life and death now…Catherine’s.

  He could shoot Gomda, easy pickings from his position, but would her tormenter get off a shot from his rifle before he succumbed, the rifle pointed at Catherine’s back? In a matter of seconds, Elam made a choice, he couldn’t risk it.

  The canine tensed beside him when Gomda rotated his neck, searching in all directions for any sign of trouble. A fine bead of sweat broke out on Elam’s forehead when he set the rifle on the ground, pulled his knife from the top of his boot and raised his hand. When he lowered it, would Wolf-dog take the cue, launch his massive body from the low rise and knock Catherine from her horse? He wasn’t a betting man, but if he were, he’d wager the dog’s love for his mistress would win in the end. Wolf-dog wouldn’t lunge for Gomda, he’d do his duty, protect Catherine at all costs.

  Wait…wait for the right moment.

  In one swift, silent motion, Elam brought his hand down and Wolf-dog leaped. In the next moment, he thrust himself from the bluff, propelling his body toward Gomda. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Catherine fall and heard the sickening sound of a rifle retort. The dog screamed and crashed into the earth.

  His shoulder connected with another’s and both tumbled into the gritty dirt. Elam had time for one hard-placed undercut to the man’s face before they rose to their feet and faced off. The blow from the lightning stick came so fast, Elam didn’t have time to prepare for it or shield his torso from the violent slash. Pain shot thorough him, radiated outward to his arm and up his neck. He dropped to a knee and fumbled for the knife in his boot. One quick, well-executed throw would stop the red man, end this dance of death.

  Gomda struck again, the stick crashing into the flesh and bone of his forearm. Elam’s knife scattered into sand somewhere to his left. A heavy weight crushed him. Bodies grappled and rolled, spinning through the churned up dust, each man fighting for the upper hand. Elam willed his mind to dispel the pain in his torso and arm but it proved a futile endeavor. Gomda flipped him onto his back, pinned him to the ground by straddling his hips and looked down on him. Evil twisted the man’s face, the muscles of his arm tightening as he raised the knife in his hand.

  How ironic he’d told Catherine once the lightning stick held no power, and yet it had been his undoing in the end.

  From somewhere behind, she screamed, “No! No!”

  Metal shimmered under a burst of sunlight when the blade descended. Elam made his peace with God and prayed for a quick death.

  Crack!

  A shot rang out, echoed through the air and reverberated in his ears. Gomda’s body jerked and an expression of shock registered in his obsidian eyes before he fell into the dust beside him in a crumpled heap.

  Breathless and trying to make sense out what had happened; Elam raised himself up onto an elbow, his eyes wandering to the lone rider twenty feet away.

  Wayward One rode forth, smoke from his rifle spiraling skyward. When his pony stopped, he looked down on Gomda. Elam followed his gaze and took in the grisly scene. Blood oozed from a gaping wound in the man’s chest. Like his mouth, his ebony eyes were open, staring at the clouds overhead.

  Wayward One’s voice drew his focus again. “Among the Kiowa, my word is law.” He looked over Elam’s shoulder to Catherine. “Go in peace, Tapco.”

  Turning his pony around with a gentle rein to the neck, the red man rode off without looking back.

  Elam dragged his battered body through the dirt toward Catherine. He yanked the knife from his boot, severed the rope at her wrists and pulled her into his arms.

  “Foolish, foolish woman.”

  She arched her neck back, a feeble grimace touching her lips. “I tracked him, thought to take him by surprise.” One shoulder came up. “He doubled back before I realized it, jumped me from behind.” A tear trickling down her cheek. “I’m sorry, Elam. Can you forgive me?”

  “Shush now. I know you thought what you were doing was right. Nothing to forgive.”

  She looked to Wolf-Dog with an anguished sob. “I killed him, the magnificent creature that protected me with his life.”

  Elam turned her face away with cupped hand. “Don’t blame yourself. He….”

  A series of soft whines drifted around them.

  “Wolf-dog! Oh Sweet Virgin, Elam, he isn’t dead!”

  “No, he isn’t. I don’t know who’s more stubborn, you or that wolf.”

  “Can you help him? We can’t let him die.”

  Elam whistled for Bandit and long seconds later, the horse meandered toward them. Sore and bruised, he came to his feet, retrieved the blanket from his saddlebag, and lifted the injured dog into the folds. And then he stretched a hand out toward Catherine. “Can you ride?”

  She nodded.

  Elam draped the dog across Bandit’s back, helped Catherine onto Gomda’s horse and then mounted behind Wolf-dog. “Let’s go home,” he said with a smile. Something tells me Hiamovi isn’t going to be too happy about nursing your dog back to health again.”

  Alarm rang in Catherine’s eyes.

  Elam put a hand in the air and smiled. “I know he’ll do everything he can to save him.”

  Chapter Nine

  Catherine sat up in bed, stretched her arms over head and released a contented sigh. Scanning the room, she spied Little Jack resting in the cradleboard Hiamovi made for him, and lying on the floor beside him, Wolf-dog. She didn’t need to look for her husband, Elam. She’d missed his warmth beside her the moment he slid from bed that morning.

  Her husband…how she loved calling him that. Not long after Wayward One killed Gomda, Elam made good on his promise. He traveled into town one morning and returned with Reverend Winston. The man arrived with the Good Book tucked under his arm and his plump, rosy-cheeked wife on the other to bear witness to their union. The woman had squashed most of Catherine’s fears with her kind demeanor and open-arm acceptance. Perhaps she’d been wrong to assume no one would accept her after living with the Kiowa. Dora Winston gave her hope. The preacher’s wife was a shining example that some were willing to set prejudice aside, accept their neighbors and friends regardless of where they came from or what had happened in their past.

  Catherine rose from bed, smiled down on her sleeping son and left the room. In the main room of the abode, a fire burned in the hearth, doing its best to stave off the chill in the air. She glanced toward the window, delighted by the large snowflakes dashing against the pane. Unable to resist the urge to head outside, she pulled the blanket draped over a rocker, snuggled it around her shoulders and opened the door.

  Near the barn, Hiamovi stopped feeding his goats long enough to wave to her. She waved back and stepped into the yard w
ith memories from her childhood chasing her.

  Traveling back to Dakota Territory, she saw a candle burning in the kitchen window, watched her brother Jack motion her toward the snow fort he’d been building. Sweet, sweet Jack. The brother who never had a chance to grow to adulthood, see his firstborn enter the world or bounce his grandchildren on his knee.

  Like that day from long ago, monstrous clumps of snow fell from the clouds and blanketed the ground at her feet this morning. She walked forth through the drifts, arms out at her sides, her face to the sky.

  Elam told her several weeks ago to prepare for such a sight, assured her that before long she’d witness firsthand a Colorado winter. In fact, the old men in town told him this winter would bring blizzard-like conditions with mounds of snow topping the mountains and drifting down to the valley below.

  Wolf-dog appeared beside her, his alert eyes focused on a rider in the distance. Catherine cupped a hand over her brow and watched man and horse advance.

  “Elam,” she whispered with a smile and then wondered what he dragged behind him through the snow.

  He brought Bandit to a halt near the porch and nodded over his shoulder. “Took me a long time this morning to find the perfect one.”

  “A tree? You cut down a tree and dragged it home?”

  “Yep. Thought maybe we’d carry it into the house, light some candles on the branches, and cuddle up in a blanket on the floor tonight.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Elam, you are the most wonderful man in the whole wide world.”

  “Nah, I’m just an old ranch-hand, a sentimental old fool who’d do anything to make his wife smile.”

  “Cowboy,” she corrected him. “You’re the cowboy of my childhood.”

  Hiamovi hobbled through the snow and looked down at the tree. “White man make joke. Bring tree into house.”

  “I know, old man, you must think this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever seen.

  He nodded. “Humph.”

  “Well, I don’t care what either one of you think.” Catherine marched through the drifts and knelt down beside it. “Cut the rope, Elam. I’ll help you pull it inside.”

  Elam dismounted, knelt beside her and severed the rope near the base of the tree. Eyes burning bright, he took Catherine’s hand in his and placed them on a sturdy branch. “Let’s do this.”

  “Together,” she said meeting his eyes with a smile. “Together forever.”

  ~ The End ~

  About the Author

  Cait Braxton lives in the Midwest part of the United States. She loves animals, children and gardening. When she isn’t writing, you’ll find her volunteering at the local animal shelter or the food shelves in her community that help the elderly and disabled.

  Cait also writes as Keta Diablo in several genres. To learn more about Keta’s books, visit her Amazon page

  ***

  Thank you for reading Catherine’s Cowboy, one of the stories in the Silver Belles and Stetsons anthology. If you enjoyed the story, please help others enjoy it too. Recommend Catherine’s Cowboy and help other readers find Silver Belles and Stetsons on Amazon by recommending it to readers' groups and discussion boards. You’ll find it here.

  Please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Reviews are a great way to support authors and encourage them to write more stories for your enjoyment.

  Thank you so much,

  Cait

  Angel And The Texan From County Cork

  A Brides of Texas Code Series Novella Book Three

  by

  Carra Copelin

  Angel And The Texan From County Cork

  By

  Carra Copelin

  Copyright © 2015 Carra Copelin

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Grayson County, Texas, December 23, 1879

  Jamey O'Donnell could no longer feel his legs below his knees. His toes had gone numb a few miles back. This late December cold snap had caught him and a lot of other people off guard. Shifting in the saddle, he searched for anything remotely familiar, but the landmarks he remembered were either covered in snow and ice or non-existent. He supposed it was possible his memory was playing tricks on him. After all, landscapes changed over time.

  He hadn't visited the Double R in three years, so maybe he'd simply taken the wrong turnoff. One thing he knew for sure, he had to get in out of this cold soon or he didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of surviving.

  His sister Matelyn's last words echoed in his head, "Remember to take care of yourself. Come back to us." He fully intended to do just that. Someday. Right now he was headed to Leadville, Colorado to mine silver. He'd heard talk in Dallas of the silver camps and the wealth to be had. He'd had a nice run mining gold at his site in California. When his good fortune ran dry, he'd come back to Texas.

  His sister and brother-in-law, Mattie and Ian Benning, had been more than kind to let him live with them and work on their ranch. But even though he worked hard for his pay and had plenty of money in the bank, he still depended on the kindness and generosity of others for a place to live. He longed to put down roots somewhere on a place of his own. He’d looked for a ranch but, so far, he hadn't found one that appealed to him. In the meantime, he was headed to one last adventure. He didn’t know if he had any luck left in him, but he had to try.

  Right now, though, the single digit temperatures were taking their toll. Finding shelter was imperative.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the outline of a barn appeared. If he could cover the distance quickly, he and his horse, Rusty, both stood a chance of surviving. Hopefully there'd be other animals inside they could sidle up to for warmth, or at least he could bed down in his blankets in the hay.

  As he neared the dilapidated structure, he wondered if he'd been too optimistic. The walls leaned dangerously to the south. The rotting and missing boards wouldn't stop a small rock much less the gale force North Texas wind. Dismounting carefully lest he land wrong and break a leg, he opened the slab of boards that could loosely be called a door and entered, leading Rusty behind him. It wasn't any warmer inside, but at least they were out of the direct wind.

  He brushed the snow from Rusty's head and face then checked out their surroundings. A meager supply of hay bales stood along the north wall. He made a wild guess they were what kept the structure upright on that side. The west wall stood only by the haphazard support of three narrow stalls. A cow occupied the larger middle space with a milking stool and a bucket nearby. That sight encouraged him more than anything had in the last several hours. By all rights there should be a house to go along with this barn.

  Movement behind the cow snagged his attention. He wasn't alone. Rusty shuffled nearer to him, putting his Winchester in closer proximity. He reached up to rest his gloved hand on the horse's neck.

  “Easy boy,” he crooned.

  “Don't move, mister, or I'll drop you where you stand.”

  The speaker, dwarfed in men's clothing and wrapped in a heavy coat, resembled a young boy but the voice was decidedly female. And, while full of bluster, her voice held a slight tremor. She was obviously wary of his presence. Jamey took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

  “Sure'n I'll not be a threat to ye, miss. Me and Rusty, we're just tryin' to get in out of the cold.” Throughout his life, he'd been in and out of rough, sticky or tense situations. As he heard the snick of the hammer being cocked, he figured this qualified as all three.
>
  “Take your horse and get out of my barn.”

  Slowly, Jamey turned his body around to face her. He stayed close to Rusty while keeping his right hand near the rifle. In spite of his situation, he grinned. Speaking more to himself than to her, he said, “Well aren't ye just a wee slip of a thing?”

  “I'm not kidding. I will shoot you.” She backed up a step, raised the barrel of the over-sized pistol, both hands shaking, and aimed straight at his chest. “Now move away from that rifle.”

  He needed to get her calmed down or she might actually shoot him. Taking two steps forward, he said, “Fair, colleen, my name is—”

  The next thing he knew, he’d slammed onto the hard dirt floor. Searing pain shot along the right side of his head. As darkness closed around him, he wondered where he'd gone wrong.

  ***

  Good Lord, what had she done? Angel Rivers struggled to regain her footing. Without warning, Bitty had sidestepped and bumped into her causing her arms to fly up and her finger to pull the trigger. When the gun went off, the sound reverberated through her body, adding to the queasiness she'd felt since the stranger had appeared.

  She hadn't truly intended to shoot him. She'd only wanted him gone from her barn. She didn’t know if he really sought shelter or if he worked for the devil in rancher's clothing, her neighbor, Cleve Moran. He and his henchmen, masquerading as ranch hands, had harassed her and her husband, Will, for months. That is, until they shot him two weeks ago.

  Frightened and so cold her teeth chattered, she returned the pistol to the pocket of her skirt and then cautiously approached the body of the man she'd shot. He laid there silent and unmoving. Was he dead? She leaned closer to see if he was still breathing, but due to his coat buttoned up to his neck she couldn't tell. There was so much blood from his head wound, if he wasn't dead, he soon would be.